


The Thing About Selby

by MidnightFragments



Category: Snooker RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 13:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14594307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightFragments/pseuds/MidnightFragments
Summary: Here's the thing about Mark Selby—he takes Neil's breath away.





	The Thing About Selby

**Author's Note:**

> I only bothered to pay attention to the order of matches and the final scores in real life if it happened to fit my fic. It mostly didn't, so please don't take any of the scores or matches as the real ones.
> 
> Also, I am pretty new to the fandom and still learning things. I don't even know if there's a players lounge, and if so, who can be found there usually. I'm going off a couple fics here and one single comment from a commentator on a certain match.
> 
> This was supposed to be the first in a series of ficlets allowing me to explore the dynamics of this ship, but as you can see from the word count—that didn't happen. Oh well. A few ficlets will follow in the near future, hopefully.
> 
> A huge thanks to DJ for beta-reading this!

Here's the thing about Mark Selby—he takes Neil's breath away.

Neil watches as he plays, and his breath catches in his throat. When Mark plays he looks gorgeous; his eyes—Neil thinks they are the most beautiful eyes in the world—are focused, an endless pool of calculations and possibilities; his body is relaxed, movements easy as he pots ball after ball.

It's okay when Neil watches from afar, from the comfort of his empty home or the couch in the players' lounge, if he happens to be playing that same day as well. It's okay, because no one knows that he watches Mark playing but his thoughts are nowhere near the matches themselves.

It's worse when  _ he _ is playing Selby. It's worse, because his mind is blank and he misses easy shots, and his eyes land on Selby more often than they pay attention to the table.

He can't stop, though. Can't stop looking, watching. God damn Mark fucking Selby, he thinks when he loses his match against him 4–0.

Mark eyes Neil weirdly after the match, maybe sensing something is wrong, maybe questioning Neil's horrible game. Neil—at long last—manages to look away, to avoid Mark's eyes. So Mark doesn't say anything, and Neil watches his back as he walks away.

 

"Come over to my place," Mark says over the phone. To watch the final. Conversations with Selby over the phone are the easiest because Neil doesn't see him.

When he arrives, Mark hugs him quickly and leads him to the living room. He pops open one bottle of beer for Neil and one for himself. Neil watches as he darts his tongue out to lick his lips, as he brings the bottle to his mouth—how he wants to kiss that mouth—as he swallows the drink down. Neil imagines Mark swallowing something else.

He returns his eyes to the TV before Selby notices anything, because that would be awkward.

"What do you think?" Mark asks, gesturing towards the screen where Ronnie and Barry are taking their seats.

Neil—has been thinking about Mark, about his mouth and his hands and his body—catches himself in time, and says, "Ronnie's been on top of his game for weeks now."

Selby nods. "Guess you're right."

For three frames, Neil doesn't take his eyes off the TV, doesn't trust himself to keep on watching the match if he starts watching Selby instead. Then Mark laughs at something Mike Hallet says and Neil's eyes snap to him.

His head is tilted back comfortably, his eyes are shut, his mouth is open. He looks stunning.

Neil can hardly look back to the TV. He certainly doesn't follow the match anymore.

 

Neil has accepted a long time ago that he likes Mark Selby, that he wants more than just friendship from him. He doesn't say anything, because they are both a part of the tour and it would make both of them uncomfortable. Better if only he is uncomfortable. Neil doesn't want Mark's mind to be distracted.

Selby doesn't make it easy for him tonight, though. They are out in a club, celebrating both of them winning their first round in the UK Championship. Mark is downing shot after shot, Neil has already lost count on how much  _ he  _ has been drinking. All he knows is Mark is out there on the dance floor, moving his body in a way that should be illegal.

Neil watches from the bar, his eyes never leaving Mark's dancing form.

Mark owns the floor. People look at him, people dance with him, people  _ touch  _ him. Neil releases an animalistic growl—somewhere deep in the parts of his mind that are still somewhat rational, hoping no one has noticed—and abandons the bar in favor of the floor.

He forgets the world around him, tries to get his mind off Mark fucking Selby.

The guy comes out of nowhere, his body suddenly right there behind Neil's. Neil closes his eyes, pretends the arms wrapping around him belong to a certain someone, dances against the stranger in a way that would be considered pornographic if they weren't clothed.

The stranger attaches his lips to Neil's neck, causing Neil to rub harder against him. His hand is being grabbed, and the guy leads Neil away from the floor and to the corner of the room, where he pushes him against the wall and brings their mouths together.

Neil shouldn't be doing this, he knows. Not in public, where anyone could recognize him. He doesn't care. He closes his eyes and kisses back, his arms exploring the stranger's body the same way his tongue examines his mouth.

He bucks his hips up and away from the wall, creating a wonderful friction between their clothed groins, and moans into the guy's mouth.

The music is loud, his body feels free, and his mind lets go. "Yes," he says when the body against him increases the speed of its thrusts. "Yes, Mark, oh God, yes."

He knows exactly what he is saying, whose name he is moaning, but it feels so good and he doesn't want to stop, doesn't think he  _ can _ stop at this moment.

"Mark,  _ fuck _ , yes, yes." He is close,  _ so _ close, and he is sweating and shaking and then he comes in his trousers like a bloody teenager, his body stopping as his release washes over him.

The body pressing him against the wall disappears, and when he opens his eyes he can't even tell who it was from the dancing crowd. But there is a pair of eyes looking at him, staring at him in shock. Mark stands so close, close enough to have heard Neil.

Neil is too drunk to feel embarrassed. He isn't drunk enough to stop his heart from breaking when Mark turns and walks away and out of the club.

 

Mark doesn't talk to him anymore, and Neil wants to scream in frustration. As a general concept, not being near Selby should ease Neil's mind, should allow him to focus on the important stuff. In reality, Mark's silence and the excuses he finds to leave the room every time he sees Neil make it so his thoughts are always busy with him.

They both make it through the second and third rounds of the UK Championship without much of a hassle, but Neil falters against Perry on the fourth. There is a moment, during the mid-session interval, when Neil walks out of the arena and Selby is there.

They both stare. Mark opens his mouth, as if about to say something, closes it, and remains silent. He is turning to leave when Neil calls after him, "Nothing has changed!"

Mark's back stiffens. He doesn't look at Neil when he replies that no, everything has changed.

Neil's body eventually finds its way back to the arena, but his mind is still stuck in the hallway, where Selby's back disappeared around a corner.

It's only due to his 3–1 lead before the mid-session that he doesn't completely drop the match. Perry takes the next three frames easily enough, and Neil forces himself to get his head in the game. He makes it through eventually with a 6–4, but he can't feel the thrill of the win.

Only later that same day that he realizes his quarter-finals match is against Mark.

He hardly sleeps at night.

 

It's not surprising that Mark is ignoring him in the players' lounge before the match, though it still hurts. It also hurts when Ronnie attempts to kiss Mark's cheek for his Instagram story and Mark laughs, wipes his cheek, and protests, "fucking gay, mate."

Selby's eyes suddenly fly to where Neil sits, staring at him, and he at least has the decency to seem embarrassed for what he's just said.

Neil honestly hopes Ronnie isn't going to post that video.

For a reason he can't understand, Neil's mind is completely focused this time. Maybe it's his anger at Mark's remark earlier; maybe he is just determined to win after the Joe Perry disaster yesterday.

Neil still watches, still can't not notice Selby's handsome face, still stares when Mark bends right in front of him, the frame of his ass clear through his tight grey pants. But this time, whenever Neil gets up to play his turn, his head is clean, quiet.

He loses the match 6–5, but he leaves the arena with his mind lighter than it has been in weeks.

 

There is someone at Neil's hotel room door at 4 AM. Neil wakes up with a start when he hears the knockings, wonders for a moment if he's dreamt the sound, then rubs his eyes and walks over to the door when whoever it is keeps knocking.

His hazy mind takes a few moments to realize it's Mark who's standing there. He feels awake within seconds.

"Selbs?" He doesn't even try to conceal the shock in his voice. Mark hasn't spoken to him in  _ weeks _ .

Mark is absolutely wasted. He is leaning against the wall, the smell of alcohol reaching Neil even from the distance still between them, and his eyes—previously closed—open when he hears his name and struggle to focus on Neil's face.

"You!" he calls. He pushes away from the wall and attempts to punch Neil's bare chest, but loses balance and falls into his arms instead. "It's all your fucking fault!"

"Selbs, come on in," Neil says quietly, half leading-half dragging Mark to the couch. "Sit," he says. "I'll get you some water."

Mark doesn't let go of Neil's hand, and he doesn't sit down. Instead, he repeatedly hits Neil's chest, this time not missing. His punches grow weaker as he keeps saying "this is your fault, all your fault" over and over again, until suddenly they stop and Mark collapses to the couch.

Neil goes down with him, wraps his arms around Mark and feeling his tears on his shoulder, and he whispers, "It's okay, Selbs. It's okay."

He doesn't know how long it takes for Mark's cries to turn to quiet breaths, but eventually, he realizes Selby is asleep. He rearranges his position on the couch, puts a pillow beneath his head to make sure he won't wake up with a sore neck, and leaves a glass of water and a box of painkillers on the table next to the couch before making his way back to his bed.

Needless to say, he doesn't fall asleep again that night.

 

Mark doesn't wake up on his own, so Neil wakes him up by shaking his shoulders a little after eleven.

He looks confused when he opens his eyes, but not like he doesn't remember what happened last night. Neil himself—well, he  _ wishes _ to know what exactly happened last night, but he also acknowledges the fact Selby needs to get presentable and ready for his match soon.

He hands him the water and the pills he had left on the table. "Your match is in a few hours. Drink those, then take a shower and brush your teeth. You stink. I'll find you some clothes. You don't have enough time to go back to your hotel."

Mark says nothing, just does as instructed while Neil calls a taxi for him.

He comes out of the bathroom looking like a different person, nothing like the one who cried and hit him last night. Neil can't stop himself from staring at his naked chest. Mark looks at him, finally looking at him and not averting his eyes, and says, "You look awful."

Neil rolls his eyes, wants to say, 'It's because of you'; wants to say, 'I couldn't sleep all night because I was thinking about you'; wants to say, 'I'm always thinking about you'. He says, "So are you." He gestures with his head to the bed. "Clothes. For the match."

While Mark gets dressed, Neil thinks. His thoughts don't get him far. He still has no idea what happened with Selby last night, but he is determined to keep his head occupied so he doesn't turn around and ogle Mark's body.

When he finishes, Mark clears his throat. "Thank you. For last night. And the clothes, of course." He heads to the door.

"Mark –" Neil calls, but Mark interrupts him, one hand already on the door handle.

"My match starts in a little over an hour, Neil. I gotta go." He probably notices Neil's expression, because he adds, "We'll talk. I promise."

"I called a taxi for you," Neil says, defeated.

He leaves, and Neil watches the door for a long time after it closes behind him.

Selby loses his match. Neil, who hasn't moved since Mark left his room, isn't surprised. Mark probably has the worst hangover; Neil winces just thinking about it.

His own match isn't until tomorrow, so Neil doesn't bother leaving the hotel. He has lunch in one of the hotel's restaurants, catches up on the sleep he'd missed after Mark showed up at his room, and has dinner at another restaurant.

Mark doesn't call him, and he doesn't show up.

When Neil goes to sleep that night, his heart breaks just a little bit more. He'd thought he'd reached the bottom before, but he was wrong. This… this is worse.

 

Neil is tired—of hiding his sexuality for years and years, of pretending he doesn't care about how Mark ignores him, of loving him.

Because yes, Neil Robertson loves Mark Selby. Mark  _ fucking _ Selby, who has again not spoken to him in weeks. Even when he'd needed to return Neil's clothes, he'd done it through the hotel staff. And Neil is so goddamn tired.

It's in China that he finally breaks.

It's the first day, the players' lounge is filled with people, and Mark walks into the room. He notices Neil right away and averts his gaze. Someone calls Selby over—Neil doesn't even bother to turn around and see who it is—and Selby walks over, passes by Neil, trips on his extended foot.

"Sorry," Mark mumbles, still refusing to meet Neil's eyes, and Neil… he's finally had enough.

"Bugger off!" He shouts, standing up. He draws more than just Selby's attention, but he is done caring. "You –" he calls, pushing Mark's chest, "–can take your sorry ass and go fuck yourself." He punches at Mark, who is too surprised to react. "You sodding –" a punch, "–lying –" punch, "–piece –" punch, "–of shit!"

Hands wrap around him, dragging him away from Selby and out the room. "Calm down, Robertson," someone—Trump—says in his ear, but Neil isn't even putting up a fight anymore. He shakes the two pairs of arms off him and leaves the room on his own.

There's nowhere private he can hole up in to relax—or to cry, if the way his sight turns blurry and his throat starts aching means anything—so he finds himself exiting the building through an emergency door and leaning against the wall.

He takes deep breaths, counting the seconds for each one, but the heavy breaths soon turn into sobbing. His back slides against the wall until he gives up and sits down, hugging his knees and burying his head in his arms. This is what he has come to—a crying mess.

He stops crying, eventually, his breath evening out and his heart rate calming down. A glance at his watch tells him he has exactly 15 minutes to get back inside before his match starts, but he stays outside until he thinks his eyes are no longer red and swollen.

Thankfully, he runs into no one on his way to his dressing room. He puts on his vest, checks his cue for the final time, and leaves the room, hoping no one will be able to tell he's had a small breakdown less than an hour ago.

He loses his match.

Mark still refuses to talk to him, only now the other players eye him worriedly when they look at him. He pretends not to care.

 

The World Championship has always been the tournament Neil waited for the most, the grand title he wants to claim. This year, he can barely get his ass off his couch in Cambridge and make the two-hour drive to Sheffield.

The sight of the Crucible does not send chills down his spine as always, the pre-tournament thrill is replaced with uneasiness and exhaustion.

He's had almost three weeks to regain his senses after the China Open, and he thinks he's managed to get himself under control, even if he feels like he is operating on batteries that are almost empty.

Neil doesn't know what he thinks about having to see Mark anymore. Mark hasn't said more than a few words to him for months now, hasn't shown any sign of wanting to get their friendship to what it used to be. There was a time Mark was Neil's best friend. These days he is practically a stranger.

Neil still loves him, though, can't seem to get his heart agree with his head.

While he still receives funny looks from the other players, no one brings up Beijing—not to his face, anyway—and Neil is rather thankful. He doesn't need a reminder; the scene has played in his head enough times for his entire life.

His first match is against Milkins, on the first day of the competition. He comes out of the morning session with a lead of three frames, ends the evening session with a 10–8 win, and has five whole days to wait for his second round match.

He doesn't see Selby on that day at all, what with Mark's first match scheduled to be on the fourth day, and maybe it's good. He still hasn't figured out how to act around Mark, worries he'll see him and all the feelings he's spent the last three weeks burying will flood right back.

He's considered going back home for the next few days, but it's late and the idea of driving over two hours back to Cambridge only to have to do it again in less than a week sounds tiring and completely unnecessary, so he goes to his usual hotel in the city and checks in to the room he had reserved in advance.

It's been a long day, and by the time he's unpacked and showered he is all but ready to crash into his comfortable bed. He is just about to do that, when someone knocks on his door.

Frowning, he sighs and walks over to open it. This better be important, or he just might murder whoever it is that's out there.

This time Mark isn't wasted, doesn't lean against the wall to keep himself steady. Neil is still stunned to see him there.

'Exhausted' is the only word Neil can think of to describe Mark's appearance. His beard hasn't been shaved for at least two weeks, there are dark circles under his eyes, and he seems to have aged years over the course of the last three weeks.

Mark meets his eyes, for the first time in  _ months _ just looking at him and not turning his eyes somewhere else. Neil has forgotten how beautiful his eyes are. "May I come in?" Mark asks.

Wordlessly, still too surprised to gather his thoughts, Neil moves aside.

Even though Mark is the one who showed up in Neil's room, he doesn't say anything for a long time. Neil watches him as he paces back and forth across the room, hands clenching and relaxing over and over again, his mouth opening to say something and closing without letting out a word.

Eventually, it's Neil who is speaking. "Mark, just  _ talk _ to me." It comes out pleading and begging, and he wants to smack himself but it also gets Selby to finally stop pacing and return his eyes to him.

"I'm not good at this," Mark blurts, looking surprised at finally finding his voice.

"Not good at what?"

Mark flails his hands around. "You. Me. This," he says.

Neil has no idea what he is talking about.

"I can't… it won't stop. No matter how much I try—and I've tried, Lord knows I've tried—it just won't go away, and I don't know what to do, it's all so… you know?"

Neil shakes his head. "Selbs, you're not making any sense, mate. Just… just calm dow–" He's interrupted by Mark's lips landing on his own.

For a few short moments, Neil is too shocked to realize what is happening, his body reacting to the kiss on an instinct. His hands find their way into Mark's hair, his lips move in sync with Mark's, his mouth opening to allow his tongue inside.

Then his mind catches up to what is happening. He puts his hands on Mark's chest and pushes him away, yelling, "No!" in the process. He wipes his mouth, catching his breath, and then he looks at Mark's surprised face. "What the fuck, Selby?"

Selby doesn't say anything, looks like a kicked puppy more than anything, and Neil, who loves him—too much for his own good, he thinks sometimes—can't stand to see this hurt expression on his face.

He sighs, rubs his face and sits down. "You can't fucking do that," he says, all the anger disappearing from his voice, leaving nothing but tiredness. "You can't ignore me for five months and then come to my room out of nowhere and kiss me. It doesn't work like that."

"I'm sorry," Mark says, taking a deep breath. "I told you I wasn't good at that."

"Bloody oath, that."

Mark takes a hesitant step forward, then seems to make up his mind and sits on the second couch in the room. "I know I was an arsehole lately."

"Well, as long as you know," Neil retorts.

"I was… confused," Mark says, slowly. "I mean, at first I was just embarrassed. Gods, Neil, I didn't know what to think. You're my best mate, but I never even knew you were gay, or that you…"

"Had feelings for you?" Neil raises his eyebrows.

Something passes on Mark's face, like a confirmation to a thought he's had has just been made. "Yes," he replies. "And then I thought it was okay, you know? Like… I didn't care, it's was alright. But then I started having weird thoughts, and… I was just so  _ confused _ , mate."

Mark turns silent, and Neil waits, allowing him the time he needs to gather his thoughts. His own thoughts spin in his mind in the meantime, wondering what the hell is happening and having no answers.

"I'm sorry," Mark says eventually, sighing and getting up. "I shouldn't have come here. I thought… I needed to get it off my chest, I couldn't go another tourney the way we were."

He manages a few steps in the direction of the door before Neil's mind is catching up, and then he gets up and takes a hold of Mark's arm. He'll be damned if he lets Selby leave again when he is so close to having what he could only dream about.

He doesn't really have a plan, doesn't know what to say or what to do, but all of his common sense flies right out the window as he pulls Mark closer and brings their lips together.

Mark lets out a surprised sound, but soon enough releases a small laugh and returns Neil's kiss. "I thought I didn't get to kiss you after ignoring you for so long," he mumbles into Neil's mouth.

"But I get to kiss you," Neil replies. His smile makes it hard to actually kiss Mark, but Mark doesn't seem to care. He only smiles as well.

Here's the thing about Mark Selby—he takes Neil's breath away.

Neil watches him—when he plays, when he talks, when he sleeps—and his breath catches in his throat. Mark laughs at him for losing his words around him, for being caught staring during matches, for not being able to take his eyes off him.

Sometimes Mark teases him on purpose, Neil is absolutely certain. Mark will bend down to take a shot, and his body will go just a little bit too low; he will clean his cue during a match, and his eyes will find Neil's and he'll lick his lips in a movement that seems innocent to the cameras, but sends shivers down Neil's spine.

It's okay, because at the end of the day Neil gets to come back to his hotel room—or Mark's hotel room, it doesn't really matter—and hold Mark in his arms, and he gets to watch him as he falls asleep and as he wakes up.

It's okay, because Mark may tease him for it, but all the while his eyes say, 'Thank you', say, 'I love you', say, 'You take my breath away as well.'

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi and talk to me about snooker in my [twitter](https://twitter.com/Adi_Menzer)!


End file.
